Three days with Hamish Norton
by Irena-Lyre
Summary: It is said that adversity is a powerful bonding agent. Well, a baby is an adversity.


The first morning started with Sherlock screaming from the bedroom below.

John rushed downstairs with his gun, thinking there might be a break-in. He was right. Right next to a scared, blanket-snuggling Sherlock was this little bundle of… wow. A baby. And it was still sound asleep, dark eyelashes flickering, tiny pink mouth making sucking movements.

"John, I don't know what this is. Take it away, please."

John set down his gun and huffed. ''Come on, I'm sure you do." He peeped at the blanket-wrapped chubby face and picked out an envelop from between the layers. "Here's something – oh, it's addressed to me. Why?"

"Dear John,

This is Hamish Norton. Please take care of him for precisely three days. Appropriate fees have been transferred to your account.

Irene xxx"

Meanwhile, Sherlock had made a Herculean effort of holding up the baby without waking it up. His brows furrowed. "Hmm. A human infant. Less than four months of age. Very good sleeper."

John raised an eyebrow. "Why, thank you, dark-haired Legolas."

"Do shut up, John, although I did not understand that reference. Of course I can deduce a ton about Irene's current state without even looking at that note, but I'm not telling you."

"And why's that?"

"Because this narrator sucks at making up deductions, obviously. So let's fast forward to the sit-com."

"Sounds legit." John nodded.

Sherlock took the note from John and scanned. "Three days. Interesting. After all, this will be a very good rehearsal for you, John. How very kind of Irene."

"Rehearsal for WHAT?"

"John, you know that you're having a baby at some point in your life. It's like, written in your DNA."

Of this John could think of no retort or denial. It sure always did feel that way, now that Sherlock said it. But he had to say something clever. "Are you sure this is not actually your son? She did name him Hamish, I'm so very chuffed."

At this point Sherlock's phone rang. It was the familiar text noise, which woke the baby. By waking I mean crying violently. John swiftly took over before Sherlock panicked.

"E-banking alert – a handsome pay for the keep of your namesake, John, even by my standards. "

"That woman sure knows what she's paying for. Gosh. Now for the keeping – what do we need? Diapers? Feeding bottle? Never mind, I'll have to run to the store. But is it even legal to - leave you with him?"

Sherlock just made one of his "we both know what's happening" faces.

When John got back from Tesco, he half-expected to see Sherlock awkwardly petting a screaming, kicking Hamish. Instead, all was quiet. John went into the kitchen to sort out the supplies, where Sherlock calmly worked on his chemical stuff.

"Sherlock? Where's Hamish?"

"I see that you manifest a great deal of affection already, in the specific use of the first name instead of a pronoun. Remember that an overly attachment would be dangerous, as this job is for three days only. It's in the living room."

"Hey, I was just being nice, as with anybody else. Should have known that being nice is a crime with you." John muttered, and headed for the living room.

What he found was quite unexpected and intriguing. Over the sofa was a cradle-like device that looked like two folded arms, slowly swinging to and fro. There sat Hamish, sleeping again.

"An improvised version of an old robotic experiment, fitted with 36.7 ºC electro heating and 0.3 Hz rocking movement to mimic the human care. Quite simple, actually. " Sherlock explained though John didn't ask.

Before John could vocalise his awe or offer a pro-human argument against technology-gone-too-far, the peace was broken by the sound of a small-scale explosion, Hamish abruptly crying again, sulphuric smells accompanying. John cringed.

"Oh my gosh, what now? I'm glad to have got diapers, but I've never - "

Sherlock sighed and put on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves. "John, get the diaper and the wipes ready."

John watched intensely as Sherlock carefully laid Hamish on the kitchen counter, goggles still on, tweezers in hand. This scene closely resembles his experiments – what a horrible thought. Instead of tearing things apart, though, the clever tweezers deftly tear away the diaper, exposing more fumes. John covered his nose with the other hand while handing Sherlock the box of wipes. Observing this, Sherlock curled his lips while he finished the change, and tossed the dirty diaper into the trash bag labelled "bio-hazard".

"That was impressive." John couldn't help saying.

"Oh, the smell isn't that bad. I've had worse, as you're well aware. It's the warm and moving part that's giving me trouble."

Now that Hamish's happy again, John held him in his arms. "Aww, you ARE adorable when not stinky! Look, Sherlock, he's smiling at me! Ohh, he's got your green eyes - "

"My eyes aren't green." Sherlock said drily.

"Oh, really? I always thought - " John got on his toes and leaned in to look at Sherlock in the eyes. And Sherlock stared back. Indeed, they were not exactly green. Sort of grey, really. They might be changing. What's the word – iridescent? But they gave John funny feelings, so he stopped. "Sorry." He apologised, although not certain what for.

Sherlock didn't respond, and got back to what he was working on earlier. Then his phone moaned again, this time from Lestrade. "Ohhh, look, John, a case!"

The first night ended with John patting Hamish to sleep upstairs, while Sherlock stayed up all night on his laptop.

The second morning started with Scotland Yard roaring in laughter, whistling, and applause. Hamish was quite amused by the noise. John wasn't.

"Hey, when did you guys adopt? Congrats!" Sgt. Donovan was cheerful.

"Why aren't we invited to the baby shower?" Anderson demanded.

"Shut up, he's a client." Sherlock's face was straight as ever. That did not make them shut up.

"John, I know that I've broken all the rules by letting you guys in in the first place, but a baby at a crime scene is a bit…" Lestrade was apologetic.

John ran a hand over his forehead. He should have anticipated this when Sherlock told him about the case the night before. Will make Sherlock wear this strap at some point. "It's OK, Greg, I totally understand. I'll just wait by the tape."

"Um, by the way, did you really…" turned out Lestrade was a bit nosy, too.

John firmly shook his head. "NO. We are not a couple. He is a client, and will be gone in two days."

"Oh, that's shame. I mean… welp. Having fun?"

"Oh, yeah."

Luckily the case was simple enough to crack, no John required. The trio were able to get back to Baker Street before tea, when Hamish broke into a fit of crying.

"Ugh, what now, little poop-machine?" Food – check. Diaper – check. John was impatient and confused.

"Can you see it, John? He's bored. BORED, without the resource of a wall to shoot."

Having a wall shot seems a better option now, thought John. "Oh crap, I didn't think of buying any toys - "

"That's all right, Hamish Norton, I sympathise your boredom, and I shall play you music." And Sherlock whipped his violin out of the case.

"Oh, that's a good idea. Try Brahms or Schubert, it's supposed to be soothing."

Brahms and Schubert did not soothe Hamish Norton. His screams came to a crescendo with the romantic melody.

Sherlock paused. "I once read a paper on how infants' ears perceive sounds differently from adults. Little human, you are hard to please." And he scratched the strings randomly, as appeared to John a sign of frustration.

At the sound of which Hamish laughed. It was amazing how infants are capable of discarding their emotional state from three seconds ago. With tears remaining in his eyes, Hamish giggled out loud, fascinating John greatly.

Sherlock was no less fascinated. Flattered, even. "John! He's laughing! At the Mycroft Song! Oh, this kid knows music." John was still contemplating the fact that this "song" had a name, when Sherlock took Hamish and held him up high. "Hamish Norton, I LOVE you!"

It was the very first time that John's ever heard Sherlock saying "love" to anybody. At all. Not even to Mrs. Hudson. And hearing Sherlock saying "I LOVE you" to this infant made John feel funny, too. Sour? Jealous? John shook his head. "You're doing the Simba pose wrong. The baby should face the other way." He made a comment.

"What pose?"

"The Simba pose – oh, of course you've never watched the Lion King, or have deleted it for silly reasons. Come on. Time for some cultural education."

Thus no more boredom ensued. The second night ended with John and Hamish both falling asleep on the sofa to "Can you feel the love tonight" on violin.

The third morning started with John waking up on the sofa with a sore arm, alone. After desperately looking under the sofa and around the living room, he stumbled into Sherlock's bedroom, and smiled. Of course Sherlock was in a deep and long slumber after a case. The pleasant surprise that Sherlock was thoughtful enough to have picked up Hamish and placed him beside himself trigged funny things in John's stomach. Oh, maybe it's hunger. John carefully closed the door and headed for the kitchen to make tea and toast, humming "Hakuna Matata".

A crashing noise came from Sherlock's bedroom just before the kettle boiled. Whoever's came in sure wasn't Irene. John rushed in, just in time to have an assault rifle pointed to his head. "Mr. Holmes, please release the infant to us. Be assured that we mean no harm, he will be a key witness." Said one of the three buff guys with guns.

"Well, no, because he's currently my client." Sherlock replied crisply in stripy pyjamas, a crying Hamish in arms.

The buff guy nodded in acknowledgement. "On count of three, shoot Dr. Watson."

Oh my gosh. Is this line in the CIA's training manual? But no need for Vatican Cameos this time, because Mycroft saves the day. Patience, my Fandom friend, this is a crack fic after all. The sound of a helicopter hovered near. "British Special Force. Drop your arms. Repeat. Drop your bloody second-amendment arms!"

Now would be a good time, thought John. In the second of confusion he ducked to retrieve the gun he set down on the first morning, and promptly shot one guy in the knee. What he forgot was that Sherlock wasn't exactly able to combat. One more bullet was shot before the Special Force actually got in, and he saw blood on Sherlock's blanket.

"Sherlock! Are you all right?"

Somebody took away Hamish, who was screaming but unhurt, from Sherlock, John did not care who. He turned Sherlock over and stripped off his shirt, revealing a profusely bleeding opening on his pale left shoulder. "It's ricochet, John, just a scratch. Nothing nearly as bad as what you had." At the mentioning of which John twitched a little, but the bullet stuck in the wall just above the bed was very reassuring.

"Don't say that I have not warned you to stay away from this." Mycroft walked in, umbrella in hand.

"Go away." Sherlock replied, as usual. He won't be able to play Mycroft's theme song for a while, thought John.

"As the present situation necessitates, I highly advice the three of you to relocate to - "

"No."

"Well, our responsibility is only for one more night, and the worst is behind us, right?" John jumped in, in the hopes of soften things up a bit.

Mycroft drew in a breath sharply. "Fine. Then bear with me while I get your window restored." He twirled the umbrella as he turned around. "Remember, little brother, you are always watched."

Sherlock snorted while John got busy with bandages and other doctor stuff.

The final night ended with John crawling into Sherlock's bed together with Hamish. He told Sherlock that he was sentimental about Hamish and would like to spend the last night with him, and Sherlock nodded. But secretly John just wanted to make sure that Sherlock was okay, without seeming over-protective.

It was not weird to sleep with Sherlock, despite all the awkward scenarios that John had went through in his head. Hamish was a sound sleeper, so was Sherlock under morphine. That left all the sleeplessness to John.

On the fourth morning at eight AM sharp, Irene Adler appeared at 221B as promised.

"Yes, I'm married. Yes, he is a lawyer. Boring, I know." Irene eyed Sherlock's left shoulder as she took over Hamish, who was still sleeping. Then she turned to John, flashing a smile. "No, Hamish is not Sherlock's son. I just really like this name."

"Oh, thanks for making that clear." Sherlock scoffed.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson." Then she paused. "Thank you." With that she turned around, and closed the door behind.

"Goodbye, little guy." John waved a little, while Sherlock sink into the sofa and said nothing.

Turning back to Sherlock, John said softly, "You should probably go back to bed. Case closed."

Sherlock did not fight. He clasped his right hand at the bandage."John, this is the reason I did not drop the baby to Mrs. Hudson in the first place."

"Exactly. Me too." Then John remembered. "I am sorry. Yesterday I forgot that you had a baby in your arms - "

"Don't worry." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. Then there was silence, and John fidgeted a little.

"Sherlock. Contrary to popular belief, I really don't care that much about babies. I don't think I'll be having one."

"Okay, that sounds mean, even by my standards. The point being?"

"The point is, not so contrary to popular belief," John leaned in, "I'd rather have you."

Sherlock's greenish-grey eyes opened wide, as John bent down to touch his lips with his own. It was warm. It was good.

When John pulled away Sherlock was still incredulous. "John. It is said that adversity is a powerful bonding agent."

"Well then thank God for adversities." John covered Sherlock's mouth with his again, and Sherlock forgot about his left shoulder.

The fourth night ended with Sherlock criticizing Gandalf's tactics after a Lord of the Rings marathon, and John crawling into Sherlock's bed. This time, he told Sherlock that he wanted to make sure Sherlock was okay. And Sherlock grinned bigger than Hamish had.

Many, many days followed after that, which will not be told in comic-sans. And John Hamish Watson was always thankful of Hamish Norton.


End file.
